


took our broken hearts, put them in a drawer

by glitteratiglue



Category: Agent Carter (TV)
Genre: F/F, Femslash, Friends to Lovers, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-21
Updated: 2015-11-21
Packaged: 2018-05-01 14:23:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5209175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glitteratiglue/pseuds/glitteratiglue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peggy's no stranger to heated dreams. It’s just that she’s more used to thinking about six feet of muscle and piercing blue eyes, rather than a petite, five-foot-four brunette with perfectly coiffed curls.</p>
            </blockquote>





	took our broken hearts, put them in a drawer

**Author's Note:**

> Angie and Peggy, post-season 1. See also: all my feelings about badass lady spies and the aspiring actresses who love them.
> 
> (Side note: do I EVER write a fic these days and _not_ tag it with pining? This is getting beyond a joke).

Peggy opens the penthouse door and kicks her heels off with a luxurious sigh. Her feet ache after what must be one of the longest days on record.

Hours ago, she’d received a tip-off about a Leviathan cell still lurking in New York. It had turned out to be nothing more than a couple of agents who’d gotten themselves involved with a mafia protection racket south of Mulberry Street. Small-time organised crime wasn’t something the SSR would normally trouble themselves with, but the fact that the shady Russian organisation still had a presence in the city at all was troubling.

Thompson had looked at Peggy and sighed. “Carter, you’re up. Take backup.”

Peggy wasn’t grateful for it, the consolation prize of a minor mission when she’d been doing nothing but manning the phones and taking minutes for the past month, but she went anyway.

It had turned into an all-day stakeout in the rain. They'd taken the two Leviathan operatives into custody with minimal fuss and no useful intel at all, and now Peggy is tired, sore and fed up. At least she’s come home with a file and the promise of investigating another case; it’s only a theft of army property, nothing important, but Peggy is glad to have something to do.

Angie’s working and won’t be home until late. Peggy peels off her clothes on the way to the bathroom, entirely naked by the time she reaches the tub and turns on the tap.

There are some benefits to living in Howard’s apartment, one of which is the enormous bathtub, big enough to fit two people in (not that Peggy likes to think about the things that might have gone on in this bathtub, but Jarvis had assured her that the entire place had been scrubbed from top to bottom). And Peggy has it all to herself.

Later, she’s reclining on the couch in her flannel robe, file spread open on her knees, when she hears the front door bang.

“Honey, I’m home,” Angie calls from the entryway. Peggy can’t suppress a smile.

“Well, you wouldn’t _believe_ the day I’ve had.” Angie dumps her purse on the table and slumps down next to Peggy on the davenport.

“Let me guess,” Peggy says, not looking up from her file (by tomorrow, she’ll be expected to know the details of the case off by heart — not that any of the male agents have to do that, but Peggy Carter is always expected to prove herself above and beyond — and she _will_ not make an ass of herself in front of Jack Thompson). “Pervert customer?”

Angie sighs dramatically. “Worse, English,” she says, shifting on the couch to tuck her feet underneath her. “Served a guy, and we got talking.”

“Oh?” At that, Peggy does look up, arching an eyebrow.

Angie digs her in the side. “Not _that_! Turns out he used to be an actor, and was put out of a job this morning. Did you know seven theatres have closed in the past month? And the ones that haven’t have closed their productions and started showing movies instead.”

“I have heard it’s a rather tough time,” Peggy says carefully.

“This ain’t right, Peggy.” Angie scowls. “The great institution of Broadway theatre? It’s gone somewhere. The actors’ unions have been having protests outside the stage doors.”

Peggy reaches for Angie’s hand, unconsciously. Angie looks down and smiles at their clasped hands.

“You’re sweet, English. But even that pretty face isn’t gonna lift my dark mood.”

“Didn’t think it would.” Peggy strokes a thumb over Angie’s knuckles before their hands break apart.

Angie takes off her waitress hat and throws it on the table with an air of disgust. “I’ve got to get into movies, Peg. I’ve screwed up half the screen tests I’ve had — it’s worse than an audition, all that pancake makeup they shove on you for the lights — but I think I’ve gotta try. That’s where the big time is.”

Nodding sympathetically, Peggy says, “Well then, that’s what you’re going to do. And I’ll help you any way I can.”

“I know. Thanks.” Angie shakes her blonde hair, as if she can shrug off her bad mood with it. “Right. Enough wallowing. Whatcha reading?”

Quickly covering the file with her hand, Peggy closes it. “It’s classified.”

“You mean it’s _work_?” Angie laughs. “Don’t you ever have any fun?” Angie pulls the file from Peggy’s grasp, throwing it on the table.

“What are you doing?” Peggy frowns.

“C’mon, up.” Angie swats at her with her purse. “Take that frumpy-ass dressing gown off and get yourself dressed, girl. We’re going to the movies. I want to see the new Hitchcock. _And_ Cary Grant’s in it. Can’t lose, right?”

Peggy opens her mouth to protest, but then she sees the way the corner of Angie’s mouth is turned down, Angie’s bright smile that’s hiding how uncertain she feels right now. She gets to her feet, already resigned to doing as she’s told (and there’s not many people who can get her to do that, but somehow, Angie is one of them).

“Fine. I suppose we can’t keep Cary Grant waiting.”

“Attagirl.” Angie nods approvingly. “I’ll give you ten minutes. Make sure you wear something that shows off those killer legs.”

“Flatterer,” Peggy mutters, and heads to her bedroom to change.

*

September 1946 is unbearably sticky, the city mired in the pre-fall stage of a late Indian summer. Mercifully, the penthouse is cool, thanks to the cutting-edge air-conditioning system Howard installed for them.

It’s Saturday, and as Angie has a rare weekend day off, they’ve opted to spend it indoors instead of joining the throngs of sweaty crowds on the New York streets. Sitting at either end of the long couch like a pair of bookends seems as good a way to spend a weekend morning as any. There’s a pot of fresh coffee, and all the latest trade and entertainment publications laid out on the table in front of them.

Angie is reading a script for a new radio play she’s trying out for, her feet resting comfortably in Peggy’s lap.

“What’s this one called, then?” Peggy asks, lowering her copy of _Life_ magazine.

“The Adventures of Captain Nucleon,” Angie reads grandly, a smirk on her face. “He shoots mini nuclear bombs out of spikes on his knuckles — usually at the Russians. It’s terrible stuff, but radio’s an easier thing to get into than movies. Figure I might as well give it a try. Auditions are a week on Thursday.”

Peggy closes her magazine. “Want to try it out on me?”

Angie giggles. “You don’t want to listen to this stuff, English.”

“Try me.”

Angie narrows her eyes and shoots Peggy a look from beneath her lashes.

It’s nothing, but it’s enough to make Peggy feel hot underneath her light shift dress. She shifts uncomfortably, aware of Angie’s toes pressing against her thigh.

“Okay.” Angie shrugs. “So, I play Captain Nucleon’s love interest, Lady Smithfield-Chumley. He met me once at a party, and I helped him hide from the cops. In my first scene, I’m trapped in a burning building after Nucleon’s nemesis, the Iron Fist,” — at that, Peggy snorts — “has tried to kill me.”

Slowly, Peggy nods, trying to keep a straight face. “ _Lady Smithfield-Chumley?_ She’s British, then?”

“Aw, yeah. I forgot to say. Might have to help me with the accent, there.” Angie grins.

Peggy is in stitches by the second page, but she has to admit that Angie manages to pull off the ludicrous damsel-in-distress routine with no small amount of charm.

Sure, Angie’s British accent needs practice, but Peggy is looking forward to working on it together.

*

To their surprise, Angie gets the role.

Peggy scours the pantry for one of Howard’s incredibly expensive bottles of champagne and pops it open.

Jarvis arrives to drop off some of his homemade cakes, and looks positively delighted when Peggy invites him to stay.

“Well, just the one,” Jarvis says, accepting a glass of bubbly. “Have to get back to put the laundry on. Anna does like the way I iron the doilies.”

“You English are so cute,” Angie says fondly, grinning like a Cheshire cat. Lady Smithfield-Chumley, here we come!”

Jarvis’s lips quirk up at the corners, and he shoots Peggy a confused look.

“It’s a long story,” Peggy says quickly.

They end up opening another bottle and demolishing half a Victoria sandwich cake, while reading parts of the Captain Nucleon script out loud. Jarvis pronounces Angie as the finest wireless actress of the time, and everyone’s more than a little drunk by the time he heads home.

“Slumber party time,” Angie says, yawning. “You know I’m a maudlin drunk; I might need to wake you up so I can cry about being a failure in life. Besides, you’ve got the sable bed.”

Peggy can’t argue with that. They go to her room and climb onto the bed still dressed. Angie throws an arm over her, pulling her closer, and promptly falls asleep, snoring softly in Peggy’s ear.

Maybe it’s the champagne, but Peggy is finding it hard to sleep, being this close to Angie. They’ve done this before, but this time it feels different — or at least, Peggy _feels_ different about it.

Angie’s breath is warm against Peggy's cheek, her hand low on Peggy’s waist. Peggy can feel the touch through the thin fabric of her dress, and oh, she wants more. She breathes out shakily, sweaty from the alcohol and the closeness. It takes great strength of will for Peggy not to think about Angie's hair, her skin, the bow of her lips when she smiles.

Painfully aware though she is of Angie’s proximity to her, Peggy eventually succumbs to sleep, want still prickling on her skin.

The next day, Peggy tells herself it was nothing more than booze and loneliness. She forgets about it for a while.

*

The L & L Automat is dark when Peggy steps through the doors.

She follows a clanking noise to behind the counter, where Angie is crouched, sweeping up. A mischievous smile plays across Peggy’s lips.

Slowly, Peggy creeps over to Angie, making sure her brogues make no sound on the polished floor. “Good evening,” she says, and Angie yelps.

“Damn it, English!” she says, her features relaxing. “You scared the hell out of me.”

Straightening up, Angie brushes down her uniform and leans the broom she was using against the counter.

“That _was_ sort of the point,” Peggy says.

“Where’d you learn that, spy school?” Angie’s tone is teasing, but she knows enough about what Peggy does to know it’s not far from the truth.

Peggy smiles. “My mother, actually. She despaired when I shot up in height, and told me my big shoulders and hands would never get me married unless I learned how to move with a soft tread, and grace.”

“Mothers, eh?” Angie grimaces. “C’mon, let’s grab a table. My feet are aching something terrible.”

They take a seat in one of the booths, and Angie pours coffee into two small china cups.

“Speaking of mothers, mine called me yesterday,” Angie says, stirring her customary four spoonfuls of sugar into her brew.

“Oh?” Peggy asks, as if she has no idea (she’d heard Angie’s raised voice coming from her bedroom last night, but hadn’t heard enough to ascertain the nature of the conversation).

“I got the usual schpiel about how I’m doing nothing with my life, still working at an automat when I should just move back to Passaic and marry someone nice like _Barry._ ”

“Who’s Barry?” Peggy finds herself interested, drawn to the the indignant look in Angie’s eyes.

Angie glares at her coffee before looking up at Peggy. “My ex. Arrogant bastard, but my mom loved him to pieces, for whatever reason. He still comes over and fixes things around the house for her.”

“Can I ask why things didn’t work out?”

“Well, it mostly had to do with him and this waitress at the local diner he couldn’t keep his hands off. Never told my mom, I was too embarrassed. She thinks I just got sick of him.” Angie breaks off for a moment. “You know, I still remember what I said to him, the night I caught them together in the back of his car. _A waitress, Barry, a waitress?”_ Angie says, in a decent imitation of a scorned woman.

Not for the first time, Peggy feels the uncontrollable urge to hunt down every no-good Barry in the world and give them a sharp kick in the balls. It’s no wonder she’s not managed to date anyone since the war ended.

“I’m sorry,” Peggy says softly. Angie shrugs, but there’s a glimpse of old hurt in her eyes that she buries quickly, and Peggy doesn’t miss it.

“That was when I was still working at the munitions factory, making a good amount of dough. Had enough to move to New York, pursue my dream of being an actress. Thought I was real hot stuff. And look at me now.” Angie laughs darkly. “Can’t say I don’t miss the war, sometimes.”

Perverse though it is to miss something that claimed the lives of so many, Peggy understands. It’s not as if she hasn’t often longed to feel useful, to be challenged the way she was back in the war. She’s sure many women feel the same, ripped from their jobs and forced back into the role of housewife, mother, or at the very least, a subordinate to men.

“I know,” she tells Angie, stirring her untouched coffee with a teaspoon. “But you shouldn’t put yourself down, Angie. There are already enough people in this world who’ll try to do that. The least you can do is believe in yourself.”

“You make it sound so easy, Peg.” Angie sighs, and she looks unusually tired and drained. “I wish I was brave like you.”

"It isn’t easy,” Peggy says. “I spend my every working day with men who treat me like I’m nothing. But I’ve always said a woman should never define herself by a man. _You’ve_ got worth, Angie, beyond any of those idiots who don’t deserve you. Tell yourself that, and the rest will come.”

Angie’s eyes light up, and Peggy feels a warm spark inside her.

“Feel like a stale ham sandwich and a glass of milk?" Angie asks. "I’m starving.”

“Sounds perfect.” Peggy drains her overly strong and bitter coffee in one gulp.

Being with Angie is a far better pick-me-up than caffeine, she thinks.

*

“It’s good to see you smiling again, Peg,” Howard tells her over tea and delicate fruit tarts (the superb efforts of Jarvis) in his study one day, with a knowing look.

“Tell me about this new flying car prototype you’re working on,” Peggy says, swiftly changing the subject. “It all sounds terribly exciting.”

Howard grins. “Oh, Lola?”

Peggy rolls her eyes. “Trust you to name your car after a woman.”

Howard’s eyes have a far-away expression in them. “Not just any woman, the greatest night of my life.” He pauses. “Well, maybe the greatest night of 1945, anyway. She was a dancer in Paris. Never even got her last name.”

“I don’t know why I put up with you.” Peggy glares at Howard and stuffs another fruit tart into her mouth.

They spend the rest of the afternoon swapping nostalgic war stories.

“She’s good for you,” Howard says later, when Peggy is putting on her coat to leave. “Angie.”

“It’s not like that, Howard.”

“Isn’t it?” Howard presses on. “I’ve seen the way you look at her.”

In spite of how well they know each other, Peggy feels herself blush.

“Haven’t seen you smile like that since he was alive.”

Peggy looks away, trying to steady her suddenly erratic breathing.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “I miss him, too.”

“I know.” Peggy puts a hand on Howard’s shoulder. “Just keep your nose out of my love life, Stark.”

“Not like I’ve got anything better to do,” Howard says gloomily. His shoulder sags under Peggy’s grip. “Gotta keep my act clean these days, what with the papers and the SSR watching my every move.”

Peggy ruffles his hair affectionately.

Howard always did have an air for drama; she’s sure he’ll be back to his normal shady ways in due course.

*

Peggy has never thought of Angie Martinelli that way.

But.

Since Howard mentioned it, the idea has taken hold in Peggy’s mind. She finds herself watching Angie when she isn’t looking, dwelling on her infectious smile, her throaty laugh, the way that ugly automat uniform still manages to look good on her slender frame.

Peggy is hardly an innocent. Though she took great pains to make sure no-one knew it, the war was a difficult time, and like a lot of people, she took pleasure where she could find it. Before Captain America, there were men, and sometimes women: the kind who didn’t ask questions, who were happy to take her apart and make her forget about the hell of conflict.

Then she'd met Steve and no-one else had measured up; Peggy ended up spending a lot of nights with only her own hand and lonely fantasies for company. Sadly, they’d never taken the opportunity. She’s sure Steve would have been shy and sweet in bed, would have told her she was beautiful and held her in his strong arms like fragile glass. But with him it would have meant so much more, and she wasn’t quite ready to let him own her heart (as it turned out, he had her heart already; Peggy just didn’t know it until it was too late).

She’s no stranger to heated dreams, the kind that leave you wanting and gasping. It’s just that she’s more used to thinking about six feet of muscle and piercing blue eyes, rather than a petite, five-foot-four brunette with perfectly coiffed curls.

It’s an adjustment, for sure. But one night, Peggy gives in. She slips a hand between her thighs and rubs at her slickness, imagining Angie's delicate fingers the entire time.

When Peggy comes, it feels like falling.

*

“What in the hell happened to you?” Angie is aghast.

Peggy limps through their apartment hallway, still clad in her thick, heavy tac gear (she left the guns at the office; Angie would probably have a heart attack otherwise, and anyway, it wouldn’t be appropriate, not with the secret nature of Peggy’s work).

“Work,” she says, scowling. Peggy had been working on busting a human trafficking ring operating out of the East River Docks for a while, and managed to talk herself into being part of the team that went over there tonight. She hadn’t banked upon there being eight thugs, rather than four (it had been a good thing that she’d brought two agents with her). A lot of punches later, they’d taken them down. Agents O’Hagan and Smith were in the hospital with their injuries, and Peggy was beat up and bruised, but she took comfort in the fact that she’d left the criminals in a much worse state.

Still hurt like the blazes, of course. It had been a battle to convince the SSR doctor into letting her go home, but Peggy had always hated unnecessary fuss.

“I really don’t want to know, do I?” Angie says delicately.

Peggy eases herself onto the couch and takes a couple of aspirin from the bottle in her purse.

Angie calls Howard and gets him to messenger over a few bags of ice. She dumps the ice into the bath, helps Peggy strip off her clothes and eases her into the tub. Angie is trying not to panic, but Peggy can see the way her eyes widen at the bruises and welts.

“It’s worth all this, proving yourself?” Angie mutters under her breath, but she means Peggy to hear, and Peggy does.

“Look, what I do…it’s important. That’s all I can say.”

“Okay then, superspy.” Angie wrings out a flannel, and gestures for Peggy to lean forward. “Just watch yourself next time, okay?”

“Okay.” Peggy closes her eyes and lets Angie clean her cuts and bruises.

She’s in so much pain she can’t even enjoy the idea of being naked around Angie, of Angie’s hands touching her, but one thing Peggy can appreciate is what a good friend Angie Martinelli is.

Thompson publicly congratulates Peggy the next day in front of the entire office, looking like he’s swallowed a lemon. Though she’s on painkillers and her limbs are screaming agony, Peggy smiles.

She likes being good at what she does. Even if her job is a little hazardous, nothing makes her feel more alive.

Well, nothing except a small, dazzling automat waitress.

*

“How’d your date go, English?” Angie asks through a mouthful of pins; she’s in the middle of putting her hair up for an industry event, where she’s hoping to schmooze a few movie producers.

“It was fine. Don’t think we’ll be going out again.” Daniel Sousa is a good colleague and a nice man — there was a time when Peggy would have loved to have gone out with him — but with him, she doesn't feel that spark, that yearning that pulls at her chest and makes her stomach twist.

He’d taken the hint, and suggested they meet up again as friends. Peggy feels a little bad, but she won’t settle for anything less than fire in her heart.

She’d felt that fire with Steve, and she isn't sure she'll ever feel it again.

“Sorry to hear that, kid.” Angie strokes a hand over Peggy’s arm kindly, and God help Peggy, but she _aches,_ even from that simple touch.

“It’s fine,” Peggy says, forcing a smile. “I was planning on catching up on my casework reading, anyway.”

“Hey,” Angie says suddenly. “Fancy sneaking into this party with me? Could do with a classy dame on my arm to lend my story some credibility.”

“Why not? Let’s see just how good an actress you are, Angie.” Peggy grins wickedly, and starts rifling through her closet for something Hollywood-worthy to wear.

*

They doll themselves up in Howard Stark’s diamonds and a pair of slinky evening gowns, and head out to the ballroom. To get past the doorman, Angie pretends they’re a friend of Rita Hayworth’s, doing the best eye-rolling impression of a bored celebrity that Peggy has ever seen.

They’re arm-in-arm and laughing as they enter the swanky event, giddy with their own success.

Peggy grabs a couple of champagne cocktails from a passing tray, and hands one to Angie.

“To all the broken hearts out there,” Angie says: a fitting toast if there ever was one.

“Cheers,” Peggy says, clinking her glass against Angie’s.

They stay late, and get far more drunk than ladies in polite society should. Angie compliments Cary Grant on his tie, and Peggy has to hold Angie up with a discreet hand on her back when she becomes unexpectedly star-struck (up close, Grant is a lot more orange than Peggy expected, but he’s as charming in real life as he is on celluloid).

Unfortunately, the movie producers they bump in to seem more interested in Angie’s looks rather than her burning desire to be an actress, but she gets a few business cards and names for her trouble.

Peggy ends up being propositioned by an oil millionaire from Texas, who offers to put her up in his mansion for a week, all expenses paid if she’ll show him a good time. She tells him in no uncertain times that she isn’t a woman who can be bought, before kicking him in the balls for good measure.

They beat a hasty retreat after that, but Peggy has a feeling that the party guests will be talking about it for a while.

“ _You_ are amazing,” Angie slurs, leaning on Peggy’s arm to stay upright, tottering in her heels.

“It was nothing,” Peggy says briskly, but she can’t help the small smile that crosses her face.

They stop.

“Wait a sec,” Angie says, and she leans in, presses her mouth to the corner of Peggy’s lips. It’s barely a touch, and it smears Peggy’s carefully-applied lipstick, but the kiss is warm and soft, and Peggy yearns for more.

“Let’s get home,” Angie says, as if she hasn’t just kissed Peggy.

Peggy feels Angie on her lips for the rest of the night, a phantom touch that makes her burn under her skin.

*

Peggy is losing control.

It’s the first time in her life she’s been afraid to pursue someone she wants. The problem is that it’s Angie.

And it’s not because Angie happens to be a woman; Peggy has never put herself into a particular box in any area of her life, and she isn’t about to start now. It’s more than she doesn’t want to disrupt one of the closest friendships she’s ever had. The thought of confessing how she feels and being let down gently, with all the horrifying awkwardness that would bring, is more than Peggy can bear.

If only she was sure her feelings would be returned, but she isn’t.

She keeps her teeth together so the words won’t slip out. Angie smiles and laughs, and Peggy aches and aches.

Pathetic doesn’t even come close to the way she’s feeling.

*

She opens the small wooden box, searching through the pile of papers inside.

Peggy's closet has started to overflow, and Angie has sweetly offered to help clear out some of her old clothes. It seems as good a time as any for Peggy to show her the most precious item in her possession.

She finds the black-and-white photograph right at the bottom, tucked underneath an old letter from her grandmother.

 _Camp Lehigh, 1943_ is written on the back, and on the front is Steve — not looking at the camera, in the white army-issue t-shirt that hung off his tiny frame — all sharp bones and self-righteousness. Peggy hasn’t looked at this photo since she put it away all those months ago, and she isn’t prepared for the stab of hurt at the centre of her chest, still sharp and raw.

She shoves the photo into Angie’s hands, trying to get a grip on herself.

“Captain America,” Angie murmurs, holding the photo gingerly, like she wants to be careful with it. “Gosh, but wasn’t he a skinny little thing?”

Peggy remembers both those versions of Steve, but underneath, he was always the same awkward, stupidly brave _idiot_ she loved: that never changed after Erskine’s experiments.

She tenses, looking away from Angie.

“It’s okay, Peg," Angie says gently. "He was a part of your life. You loved him.”

“Yes, I did.” Peggy’s throat tightens, tears threatening to spill from her eyes. "I do."

“Well, of course.” Angie nods. She exhales heavily. “Sometimes I’m a little jealous of you. That’s terrible, isn’t it?” A blush creeps up Angie’s face.

“No,” Peggy says. “It all does sound terribly romantic when you think about it. I just wish I was able to let it go. Every time I think I have, it comes over me again, like no time has passed.” Now she is in tears, and not even bothering to hide it.

“He never got a chance to disappoint you,” Angie says, her gaze perceptive. “Seems to me that’s why you hold onto it so much. It’s an ideal.”

Peggy has never thought about it that way. The idea doesn’t immediately solve the private mystery of her grief, but it soothes it slightly.

“Thank you, Angie.”

“Maybe letting it go isn’t the answer. We all watched good people die, but we hang on to them. Carry them with us. And I know Captain America’s a pretty heavy weight for a girl — even you, English — but I’ve got a feeling that one day, you’ll be able to carry him.”

Impulsively, Peggy leans in and pecks Angie on the cheek.

Angie smiles. There’s a pause when they both look at each other, and Peggy feels her heart do a somersault in her chest.                                                         

Then Angie gets up from the bed, gesturing for Peggy to follow. “Think we’ve got some gin in the pantry. We could both do with something to steady our nerves, I reckon.”

*

A couple of hours later, the bottle of gin is half-empty and Peggy is sloshed already, slumped against Angie on the couch in a pleasant, fuzzy haze.

Angie leans over to slosh another tot of gin into their glasses. “To being worth something,” she toasts, slightly slurring the words.

Peggy knocks her glass to Angie’s, and giggles when some gin splashes onto Angie’s neck, glistening and shiny.

“Aw, Peg!” Angie protests, and Peggy swallows hard, trying to suppress the sudden idea of licking the spilt gin off Angie’s pale skin.

“Sorry.” Peggy grins, all wicked intent, entirely aware she’s being flirtatious and that it’s not entirely due to alcoholic courage.

“And _I_ always thought the English could take their booze.” Angie laughs, and rubs at the spill with a corner of her dress until it’s mostly gone.

“Cheers,” Peggy says, and they drain their shots, grimacing at the sharpness.

Angie sets her glass on the table and wipes her mouth. “I really shouldn't drink this much.” And she’s looking at Peggy, and it isn’t friendly — her glance is completely appraising, not even bothering to hide it.

The bottom of Peggy’s stomach drops out. Her heart thumps, loud in her ears.

“Probably, I shouldn’t either.”

She isn’t expecting anything, but her heartbeat is speeding up with every moment that Angie stays silent. Then Angie looks over at Peggy, and something shadows her face, like she’s steeling herself to say something.

“Look, Peggy, I — jeez, I can’t even say it.” Angie’s words are stilted; there’s not a trace of the actress in her right now.

“Take your time.” Peggy reaches for Angie’s hand and threads their fingers together; the small comfort seems to ease Angie’s nerves.

“See, I’ve got a problem. Maybe you’ve got a broken heart, but I’ve got one, too. I’ve fallen for my best friend, and I know she doesn’t see me like that, but I can’t stop hoping, just the same. I’m dumb like that; my ma always says I don’t know when to cut my losses and give up.” Angie is looking away, her voice unsteady, but she’s gripping Peggy’s fingers tight, like she’s afraid Peggy will pull away if she has half a chance. "Peg, I can't compete with what you lost, and I don't wanna try. But I can't stop wanting you."

Images flicker across Peggy’s thoughts: Angie teasing her flirtatiously, pressing a friendly hand to her thigh, that scorching, drunken kiss on the sidewalk. She’d thought it was all just Angie being her usual effusive self, but now she realises it was always more than that.

Angie wants her, too. It makes Peggy feel light, and warm in a way she hasn’t felt in so long.

“That’s about the size of it,” Angie says, looking about as uncomfortable as Peggy’s ever seen her.

“I think you’re incredibly brave,” Peggy says, in a rush.

Angie jerks her head up to look at her, those green eyes shining with expectation. “Nah,” she says. “Stupid, maybe.”

Exasperated, Peggy pulls their joined hands closer, till they’re resting on her thigh. “I’ll always love Steve. But I love you, too, Angie. I think I always have.”

For a moment, Angie doesn’t say anything. Peggy is terrified beyond belief, sitting here beside Angie with a heart broken open and exposed. She’s never felt so vulnerable in her entire life, her heart beating fast and her palms sweating.

Then Angie looks at her and grins, lovely and radiant. “You know just what to say to a girl, English. Love you, too,” she adds quietly.

Peggy doesn't know what to say. She stares at Angie.

“Come here, you dummy,” Angie says.

And just like that, she’s pulling Peggy into a heated, lipstick-smearing kiss that tastes of juniper.

*

It could be minutes, or hours later; Peggy isn’t sure.

She remembers all the moments leading up to Angie Martinelli being naked in her bed, but it’s in flashes and fragments. Angie, unbuttoning her dress with careful fingers. Lace and satin undergarments being carelessly tossed to the floor. Kissing Angie’s lipstick off, licking into her mouth until she moans. Running her hands all over Angie’s warm skin, sinking teeth into her neck. Peggy letting Angie press her back into the pillows and cup a warm hand around her breast, then Angie’s fingertips moving lower, lower, lower.

Angie’s mouth is on Peggy’s, and it’s not much of a kiss anymore as they pant undignified into each other's mouths, sharing air and space and heat. Peggy is clutching at the sheets, gasping while Angie’s careful fingers work between her thighs: two inside her, and her thumb stroking where Peggy is hot and slick. Peggy's touching Angie, too, but it’s hard to focus when all she can feel is the roar of her heartbeat in her ears, and the burning, desperate need that’s crawling up her spine.

“C’mon, Peg,” Angie gasps, presses her thumb down hard on Peggy’s clit, and Peggy comes in waves, clenching around Angie’s fingers and shaking.

Her head drops to the hollow of Angie’s neck. She has just enough presence of mind to keep moving the fingers she has on Angie’s clit, making quick circles until Angie is tensing in her arms, her hips pushing into Peggy’s touch as she comes, open-mouthed and trembling.

“Well. You’re better than the last fella I dated,” Angie observes calmly, as if she isn’t lying slumped on Peggy’s satin sheets, lipstick smeared on her collarbone, flushed with release.

“You’re not so bad yourself.” Peggy smiles, languid and sated. She hardly wants to think about what she looks like right now — a sweaty, messy wreck, probably — but Angie is looking at her like she’s the only thing in the world. It makes Peggy’s breath catch.

It seems like a good enough reason to pull Angie back into another wet, deep kiss, and well.

One thing leads to another. Again.

*

At work, the guys tease Peggy about being a spinster. She lets them think what they like, because she gets to come home to Angie every night.

Love’s not always a sudden burst of fire; sometimes it creeps up on you. For Peggy, it’s ice baths, ill-advised amounts of gin, and quietly reading magazines together on a Sunday afternoon. Life with Angie is quiet and uneventful, and all the better for it: it's real.

They found each other with broken hearts. But together, they’re a little less broken, and that’s all Peggy can ask for.

**Author's Note:**

> Title by Taylor Swift.
> 
> I'm also on [tumblr](http://glitteratiglue.tumblr.com), if you want to weep over Cartinelli and general MCU stuff with me.


End file.
